


Remedy

by berksome



Category: Percy Jackson and Olympians, The Heroes of Olympus - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-09 00:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3228605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berksome/pseuds/berksome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>POST-WAR. Matt Archer belongs to the next generation of half bloods, but he doesn't know that--all he knows is how to reject his mother's money and curse his father's name, mouth off to his teachers and wallow in the utter velocity of his 2007 emo vibes. Until, that is, he finds himself being whisked away to an impossible place named Camp Half-Blood, and a new world of monsters, myth, and magic suddenly take over his life. Now Matt must find the strength to train hard, study harder, and become who he was meant to be. And maybe--just maybe--discover the answers to questions he never had the courage to ask.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Initial Tantrum

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: I am currently making my way through Blood of Olympus, meaning I DO NOT yet know how the series ends. If some of the things that appear in this fic don't match up with cannon, we'll just call it an AU. B)

When it comes down to it, Matt Archer would have much rather served detention. 

It wasn't his fault he was surrounded by idiots. It wasn't his fault that his history teacher was a nasty bitch that enjoyed devouring the hearts of children. In fact, he was surprised no one had ever blown a gasket at her before. 

It had begun with the Romans. 

The previous week, Matt had made a big show about finishing his Roman Empire test early. He was sure to make his body language extra obnoxious--he enjoyed hearing the snickers from his fellow classmates when they, too, knew that he had absolutely no fucks to give. He felt as though they were rooting for him; he was their favorite form of classroom entertainment, and they knew that he knew it. Besides, Matt enjoyed making a mockery of people he despised (which was basically everyone). 

Now, as Ms. Garland handed back the graded exams, a quiet curiosity began to take shape within him. He knew he'd done well on the exam. It had been easy as shit. If he cared about impressing his teacher, perhaps he would have hoped to impress her now. 

Because of his tendency to be a class disruption, Matt had long since been seated in the front of the room, close enough to count the fat rolls that protruded through fabric way to tight and way too thin to be worn by a women that old. As he sat, disinterestedly tapping on his desk, he watched as each paper slid to a stop before each of his peers. Some sighed, others smiled, but none made comments. Matt supposed that was his job. 

At last, Ms. Garland dropped his paper on his desk, not so much as glancing at him before moving on to the next person. He sniffed, shifted, and squinted down at the paper. D-. He had received a D-. 

There was no sound in the room, but Matt had never had any problem breaking the silence. 

"Um, excuse me," he spoke up, his voice coloring theatrically with annoyance, "but what the hell is this?"

She stopped. Her features shriveled with distaste, deepening the sagging wrinkles that mapped their way across her complexion. 

"I won't tolerate such vulgar language in my classroom." She turned sharply to him with a dull crack of her neck, her voice unnecessarily voluminous. Her bleak eyes burned into him, challenging him to speak. 

So, of course, he did.

"Oh, believe me, doll," he drawled, staring just as coldly back at her, "I could have said a lot worse." 

For a high school teacher, she was horrendously quick tempered. With a curt huff, she spun on her heel and marched back to her desk, slamming the stack of graded tests down onto the surface. 

"Oh, really, Mr. Archer?" she asked, fishing around in her desk drawer, "Would you like to try?" Her back straightened, and in her hand shone the bright pink pad of detention slips. He was fairly certain every student in the class was holding their breath, but Matt felt in no way threatened. It would be just another detention for him.

"I'd love to, Diane, really, I would," he said, receiving a few snickers in reward, "But mostly I'm just wondering why the fuck you became a teacher. You obviously don't know the first thing about what comes out of your mouth." 

A few jaws dropped. Matt was on a roll now; he felt quite clever. And Ms. Diane Garland seemed quite appalled. 

"Excuse me?" she asked, her voice shrill, "Matt, what is this about?" Her hands were working furiously, scribbling down Matt's dialogue word for word on the detention slip. 

"My test," Matt stated simply, rising now and crossing his arms. "What did you do, swallow a bunch of awful grades and write down the first one you pulled out of your fat ass?" 

"That is enough." Ms. Garland pounded her fist onto the surface of the desk, making the class jump. This was all fun and games to Matt now--his initial feeling of injustice had faded into the sheer pleasure of seeing his history teacher glow with seething rage. He always found it amusing when overweight, balding teachers got all riled up. Especially when he completely despised those overweight, balding teachers. 

"If you say one more word, Matt Archer, you'll have enough detentions to keep you busy for the next four weeks." 

Matt smiled crookedly. "Don't you get it?" He asked smugly, "I don't care." 

He had hoped for a dramatic moment of silence to allow his final comment to resonate in the air. But Ms. Garland just about cut him off. 

"Don't you get it?" She said, her heels clipping across the floor, "I'm the teacher, you're the student. I'm right, you're wrong." She was standing directly in front of him now, so close Matt could smell the fumes that always clung to her coffee-stained teeth. When she spoke again, she did so slowly, gravelly, her putrid breath wafting around Matt's senses until he had no choice but to hold his breath. "You answer to me. Always. Understand?" 

The air was still. It was as if pure fury had concentrated around him, encasing him so thickly that he was unable to move. He stared into her piercing eyes, unwilling to speak. Unwilling to say "Yes ma'am," as if he were defeated, and sit back down with a month of detention. In fact, that was the only consequence of this whole situation that truly terrified him: the shame of defeat. 

So, he said the only two words he could will himself to say: "I'm leaving." 

Ms. Garland's thinning brows unfurled just slightly enough to allow her to appear mildly surprised. "And just where do you think you're going?" 

"Away from here." And with that, he hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders and left the room, ignoring Ms. Garland's calls for him to get right back here this instant.


	2. Mother May I

The apprehension set in only once Matt had left the building. It surprised him how easily a student could up and leave, completely unnoticed--it wasn't as if he hadn't thought about it before, but he expected at least _somewhat_ of a challenge. Alas. 

 

         A crisp blast of Spring air hit him as he exited, energizing his lungs. He realized, almost startled, that he was _free._ This, he realized, could be his opportunity to _forget_ all these bastards. This could be his day of escape. 

 

         In the reflection if the windows, he caught glimpses of himself as he maneuvered around the bend. His black hair shined with navy undertones in the pale sunlight, subtly tinged from when he had dyed it the previous week. Gray washed jeans clung to his knees, the wide rips there fraying and worn.

 

         As chilly mid-march winds swept across the courtyard, Matt wished he had at least remembered that hefty leather jacket of his. The cold air weaved it's way beneath the thin black fabric of his T-shirt, coursing along his skin. Hungry hands chilled his bones with icy, ravenous fingers. 

 

Still, though, he kept on. He would _never_ be showing up at that hellhole again.

 

  _Ever._ he decided. 

 

         So, where to go? Home, maybe; He'd have a night to collect himself. His mother was still off on that rally trip in Nevada, so Matt would have a few nights more before she returned. If she came home to an empty house, would she be upset? Would she look for him? Matt didn't think so. She never seemed to pay much attention to him, anyway--too wrapped up in her work. . . 

 

         Matt stopped short. His shoes began to sink into the slick Spring mud. A memory washed over him suddenly, one he hadn't thought about in a long time. One he had been trying to forget. 

 

         It had been four months ago, late November. Matt's mother had been within the confides of the home office all morning, where she never was. His mother staying home was a rare occasion. Matt hadn't been sure what she'd been doing, hidden away in there, but she didn't seem to have a good reason to leave. She'd already been locked away when Matt had left for school that morning, and she had still been locked away when he'd returned. But when he _did_ return, he had something that might get her attention, even if only for a moment. 

 

         "Mom." He had uttered, his forehead pressed against the door. "I've got something to show you." For a moment, he heard nothing. Just the steady tapping of computer keys, the dull drone of a printer. Then, to his surprise, a preoccupied voice: "It's open." 

 

         Matt reached to turn the knob. It was not, in fact, open. "No, it isn't." 

 

         The tapping stopped. Then came more tapping, different tapping, the tapping of high heels against a hardwood floor. His mother.

 

         The door flew open so fast, Matt had nearly fallen forward. There she stood, Ms. Regina Archer, founder and CEO of Archer Publishing Company. She was a thin, tall, wiry women, her caramel blonde hair coarsened from years of mistreatment. A white blouse puffed out from the waistline of a black pencil skirt, and her long, athletic legs were clad in dull black pantyhose to match. She glared down at him, her skeletal hands gripping her waist, as if he had already upset her just by existing. 

She had told him as much before, but never in so many words. 

 

         It struck him, as it did with every fleeting glimpse of his mother, just how similar the two of them looked. They both shared an angular face, striking blue eyes, and a thin physic. But Matt had received black hair from his father; he wasn't sure anymore what color hair Regina had. Was it red, or brown, or maybe a lighter blonde? She'd been dyeing it the same artificial hue for so many years, Matt had forgotten. 

 

         "What do you want?" She asked, eyes burning. It wasn't a particularly offensive question, but her abrasive tone of voice made him instantly defensive. He shoved the paper toward her, looking away with a glare. "Pop quiz," he mumbled, "Ancient Greek War Tactics. Mostly Athens' Navy. I got _every question_ right." He reframed from telling her that was the first time that had ever happened, and probably the _only_ time it would ever happen again. 

 

         Before he could even take a breath, she was back in her chair, the paper fluttering to the floor. "Mom?"

 

         The tapping began again. "That's great," she had said, not looking at him, "Now could you please _go away?_ I'm a very busy women." 

 

         Just like that, she had reinforced the idea that he meant nothing to her. 

 

         "Mom," Matt snatched up the paper and stepped into the office, the floorboards creaking under his feet. The room felt foreign to him, as he had only been inside it a small number of times. It was an average space, about the size of a small bedroom, with a wall of bookshelves on one side and a wall of pictures on the other. None of these, of course, were pictures of him, or--god forbid--his _father_ , whose mention was practically a curse word in his house. Matt didn't even know his name, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. He wondered, if his father had remained long enough to see Matt's birth, would he have wanted to stay? 

 

         Whatever. That bastard didn't matter. He was in Regina's office now, her territory--maybe this was his chance to get through to her for once. 

 

         "Matt, you're disrupting me." She stated, not sparing a glance at him. "I need to _concentrate--"_

 

         "Do you really, Mom?" He interrupted, standing directly before her desk now with his hands gripping the table, "Is your _work_ more important then your own goddamn _son?"_  

 

         She glared at him, but said nothing, and went back to her work. 

 

         " _Mom!_ " He didn’t know why, this time, her behavior was upsetting him so much. It was by no means surprising or unordinary. Perhaps he was just—again—getting tired of exerting mental energy on her. He reached out a hand to wave it in front of her face, but she swatted it away before he could. 

 

         " _Get out_ , Matt! Why don't you just get the hell out?" Her voice was shrill, stirring the air. 

 

         Matt's heart throbbed with anger. His knuckles had turned white where he gripped his mother's desk, and his throat was burning and constricted. In that moment, he had wanted to ram his fist into Regina's slender, bony nose. Even _then_ , he doubted she would have taken much notice. She would have probably even pressed charges. But he couldn't control her. He couldn't make her care. What _could_ he do?

 

         Then he realized. He couldn't hurt _her_ , but he could hurt _himself._

 

         So instead of punching her, he brought his fist down hard on his own fingers where they gripped the edge of the desk. 

 

         It was a sharp, lasting pain, shooting down his fingers in waves. He winced, immediately regretting his decision; Because oh _god_ , did it hurt like hell. And it wasn't subsiding. 

 

         But then again, well--maybe he deserved it. Maybe he was just an unfixable, meddlesome son who would never amount to anything worth noticing. That's why his mother ignored him, right? He was everything she never wanted. Nothing she could ever use, nothing she needed. 

 

         It took a few moments before Regina looked up. When she did, and saw the bruise beginning to blossom on Matt's pale skin, she gave him a bewildered glare. "What are you _doing?_ " She asked finally, her voice hard and without the concern Matt had been hoping for, "I thought I told you to get out." 

 

         It hadn't worked. She'd noticed, she just hadn't cared. Story of his life, right? 

 

         He had scowled at her, cradling his first throbbing hand with the other. There were a million words he could have said, most of them profane. But, of all the colorful language he had wanted to scream, he simply grumbled, "Fine." And stalked off.

 

         Despite the fact that events such as this were a common occurrence, that had been the only time he had done something like that--hurt himself because he was angry. Now, he despised the memory. Even more so, he despised his mother for making him feel that way. His own _mother,_ his own flesh and blood. Why did he need her acceptance? What right did she have to make him feel so worthless? None. Absolutely none. 

 

         But whatever. She wasn't here now. She was in Nevada, presenting as an influential speaker. As a successful, high standing businesswomen, she was often seen as an icon of sorts. But to Matt, that was all bullshit. His mother was a neglectful, cold hearted bitch.

 

         An icy wind exhumed his bones. He shivered, lower jaw trembling with cold. It was odd--the air had held such a still, chilly quality, save for the occasional breeze. Now winds ripped and tore at his clothes, violent and painful, jolting him into motion. He walked on; he was weaving along the sidewalks of his home city, Chicago, steadily making his way toward the nearest bus stop. His newly formulated plan was simple: Catch a bus to his neighborhood, walk home, pack his stuff, and leave the following morning. Where he was going, Matt didn't know, but it _had_ to be better than here. 

 

         The bus stop wasn't far from his school; he was there within ten minutes, standing beneath the plastic terrace that guarded him from the elements. With a sigh of relief, his leaned against the frame and closed his tired eyes. He had conquered the first hurdle. 

 

         "Excuse me?" A voice intruded upon his moment of peace. Sighing inwardly, he turned his head and slowly opened his eyes, quite unwilling to give any strangers his time. Before him stood a stocky boy, around his age, pale skinned and nearly _covered_ in freckles. His light auburn eyes stared into his, bright and determined. He was an odd looking boy--despite the cold, he wore a dark blue T-shirt, sweatpants, and Converse All Stars, which were untied. His hair was the oddest bit--it was a mop of fiery red curls, a shade or two lighter than his freckles, puffing out like that of Orphan Annie. On his shoulders hung a small travel backpack, the same color as his shirt. Odd looking, sure, but not unattractive.

 

         "Yes?" Matt asked, eyebrows knit in puzzlement. What did this kid want with him? He didn't look homeless, not really, so probably not spare change. He didn't seem panicked, either, so probably not his assistance--no, he appeared determined, and a bit surprised, as if he'd found something he'd been waiting for a bit early. 

 

         "Is your name Matt Archer?"

 

         Well, shit. 

 

         "No," Matt answered quickly, looking away. How did _he_ know his name? What could he want with him? This wasn't a secluded place to be mugged, and he seemed a bit young to be a pedophile or something…

 

         The boy before him seemed in no way discouraged by Matt's dismissiveness. Instead, he only sighed and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow. They hadn't exchanged any more than a few words, and already this boy appeared to be _so_ done with Matt's shit. 

 

         "You sure about that?" Afro Boy asked, "Because, like, it's kind of my job to know these things, and I've never been more sure in my life." 

 

         Matt crossed his arms over his chest, turning toward the other with his eyes squinted suspiciously. "Who the fuck _are_ you?" He asked, pouring as much venom into his voice as he could muster. 

 

         "Calm down." said Afro Boy, completely unfazed by Matt's sharpness, "I'm Alexander. I'm not here to hurt you."

         Bullshit. That was bullshit, wasn't it?

 

         "Then what are you here for?" Matt demanded, eyes baring into Afro Boy--Alexander, apparently--hoping he looked fierce. 

 

         "I was on my way to come find you," Alexander explained patiently, "Got lost. But hey, here you are, so I guess I'm on point." He shrugged, completely at ease. "Anyway, you need to come with me." 

 

         Of course not. This guy was crazy--a stalker, a lunatic _. Obviously,_ he was merely confused. Pitying him, Matt reframed from throwing a punch. 

 

         "You're wrong," Matt said with finality, "I've never seen you before in my life, okay, so I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy. Leave me alone." 

 

         Alexander chuckled. " _The wrong guy._ Dude, I know what I'm doing." It was then that he did something that made Matt even _more_ uneasy. This red haired stranger displayed extensive knowledge of Matt's existence. 

 

         "I was assigned to find you, see." He pulled out a small card and handed it to Matt. It was hard to decipher, given Matt's dyslexia, but after a moment or two, he was able to make out that it was something of a business card. 

 

         Matt wanted to ask questions, but Alexander left him no time. "We probably should've set out earlier, but..." Alexander trailed off, looking sheepish. "I'll have to explain it all to you later. C'mon," he beckoned, turning on his heel, "We don't have much time. You're in danger as we speak." 

 

         He turned and began to walk away, not bothering to check if Matt had begun to follow. 

 

         Matt really had the mind to--just let the kid walk away. Never would they cross paths again. Matt could suppress this memory, as he had done with all memories he couldn't explain, erase Alexander's visage from his mind and tear up the business card. But...this boy seemed oddly compelling. Maybe it was the effortless way he seemed to take control of the situation, or the kind look in his eye that reminded Matt of all the childhood friends he never had. There was something nonthreatening about this particular character, a disposition Matt wouldn't mind having around. 

 

         Besides, did he really have anything better to do? 

 

         So, with a jolt, Matt turned in hot pursuit of Alexander. The boy walked with astonishing agility--he was a little lopsided, yes, but otherwise he seemed to cart along the sidewalks with no trouble. "Where are we going?" Matt asked, trying to keep his voice aloft above the wind. 

 

         "Oh, good, you followed me. I was hoping you would do that." answered Alexander, clearly pleased, "Anyway...I can't tell you where we're going. The less you know, the safer you'll be. I'll explain it all when we get there." 

 

         "You'd better, " grumbled Matt, digging his hands deeper into his pockets. 

 

         "We'll have to wait for the bus, which comes at...what was it, two thirty? Three? I think it was three..."

 

         Alexander's voice became a steady drone on the edge of Matt's mind. In fact, _most_ of the world did--the honking of the taxis, the yelling of pedestrians, the barks of stray dogs and drunken babbling of homeless old men. Because something caught his eye. A girl. Matt suddenly found _nothing_ more interesting than _that_ girl. 

 

         She was gorgeous, to say the least. Dark chocolate tresses billowed down her shoulders in a veil of deep brown. She had ancient eyes that burned with spirit and the thirst for discovery; wide and staring owlishly around the shining Loop. Upon seeing her, Matt decided then and there that she was the _one._ He had never given much thought to marriage, let alone what _type_ of person it was with which he would spend the rest of his life, if anyone--but looking at her, he felt an almost palpable attraction. She was sexy without ever being tacky, beautiful with just the right amount of effort. She looked how she wanted to look, and she was doing a bang-up job. 

 

         But there was something wrong. It was a dull, gnawing uneasiness, deep in Matt's gut. Her image seemed to almost flicker--she lacked a sort of opaqueness that Matt couldn't place. Without it, she seemed almost _inhuman._ The longer Matt stared at her, the less she seemed to exist. But why? Why, suddenly, did she seem so completely unreal? And even worse: why couldn't Matt find it in himself to look away? 

 

         Before Matt moved on, falling into step beside his newly discovered guild to far off places, he found himself in front of her. She smiled, as if she had been waiting for him. It seemed a lot of people had been waiting for him today. 

 

         "Hi!" Her voice was squeaky, a bit too cheerful to be earnest. Matt gave a confused "Sup," and continued to stare at her. 

 

         Gum popped loudly within her glistening white teeth. "Name's Kelli. Who're you?" 

 

         Dully, Matt stated his name. She smiled a different, peculiar smile, almost devilish--if devilish expressions could exist on the faces of people that cute. 

 

         "Well, Matt," she drawled, flipping her hair over his shoulder, "How's about you and I grab some lunch, huh? There's this really nice cafe down the street with some delicious vegetarian options..." 

 

         Road Map in hand, Alexander was suddenly beside him, scratching his carrot-topped head and squinting at the routes. "Man, we'd better skedaddle," he said, gripping Matt's arm, "there's something in the air--"

 

         Kelli flashed him a smile. The color drained from his face. 

 

         "Yup, yeah, _definitely_ something in the air. We need to go. Right fuckin' now." 

 

         "What's the hurry, satyr?" Kelli asked, her voice cheerful despite a newly formed scowl, "I figured I'd find one of you here. It's a pity, I really never had a taste for animal blood." 

 

         The next moment, Kelli had completely transformed.

 

         "Whoa!" Matt yelped, his eyes refocusing, though he immediately wished they hadn't. The petite, dark featured girl Kelli had been was now a beast, her chocolate locks burning as if her skull was a torch. Tanned Italian skin grew paler and paler until she looked white and reptilian, red eyes glowing and fangs bared. She had become a _monster_ , including--and here was the weirdest part--one of her legs being that of a robot, and one being that of an ass. Matt wasn't sure which one was worse. 

 

         "Usually I wait until you men are sleeping, but," Kelli sighed, her monstrous shoulders slumping, "This'll have to do."  

 

         There was only one thought occurring to Matt in that moment: _What the hell, what the hell, what the fucking hell?_

         His legs moved before his brain told them to. Matt stumbled backward awkwardly, trying to put distance between him and Kelli but not daring to turn his back to her. Meanwhile, Alexander had moved backward as well, looking far less dumbfounded than Matt felt. 

 

         "Matt!" Alexander yelped, swinging his backpack over and pulling something out, "Catch!" 

 

         A dagger found his hand, gleaming in the smoggy Chicago light. It was light, evenly balanced in his palm, as if he'd been born to use it. It made his hand tingle to hold it, his heart pound even harder in his ribcage--to wield such a weapon as this was to wield incredible, destructive power. He had never fought with a dagger in his life, but, considering the state of his current situation, Matt figured there was a first time for everything. 

 

         There was a million questions he wanted to ask--What _is_ that? Why is no one else seeing this? Who the hell carries around a dagger in their travel backpack?--but then Kelli lunged his way and he figured he'd rather be alive more than anything else. 

 

         Matt dodged her, faster than he thought he could, swinging the dagger with poise. Despite having no training in the use of such weapons, the combat came naturally to him. His ADHD reflexes began to take over: he dodged, dropped, lunged, and generally just avoided Kelli until he could get her at the right angle (he hadn't managed that yet). But she was quick and crafty--she anticipated his every move with zeal, as if this were some sort of game she had always adored playing. 

 

         "All you demigods are the same," she purred, her squeaky voice taking on demonic tones, "Lunge, sidestep, jab, flee--you'd think, after all the millennia that I've dealt with you lot, that I'd get bored of you. But I can never resist a good fight." 

 

         Matt's heart skipped as Kelli's claws rippled through the air where his face had just been. 

 

         "And," she cooed, "What a handsome face to be the first one I destroy since coming back from Tartarus. It's a shame, really. Good thing I don't feel bad." 

 

         And with that, she lunged, quicker than Matt could have ever imagined. His head slammed onto the pavement, dizzying him, and the dagger clattered from his hand. His body shook with the force of it, his eyes struggling to keep focus. Kelli's image danced in his view--she flickered from the beautiful girl she had been ten minutes ago to her true form, _the monster_. Her jagged fingers pressed into Matt's throat, restricting movement. His thoughts were growing muddled. This was just _great,_ wasn't it? He couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe. He was truly about to die. 

 

         Kelli hung over him, fangs long and fine tipped. Toxic breath seeped from her lips and saliva steamed at the corners, preparing for him. It was a disgusting, ugly, _terrifying_ display. Matt writhed beneath her, trying desperately to break free, but she had him pinned. Her hungry red eyes burned into his mind like scars on his skull. 

 

         Was this it? Was this his end? Confused, tired, and at this shitty Chicago bus stop, alone on a busy street? Was this _really_ how this was going to go?

 

         Evidently, yes. 

 

         Whatever. Sometimes, people just had to die. Though, to be perfectly honest, this wasn't how Matt had imagined it. He'd hoped maybe a car accident, or a heroic act of bravery. A sacrifice, or getting shot in some really epic way. Not being strangled by a demonic teenage girl. 

 

         She hung aloft over him, relishing in the moment, relishing in his defeat. For as much he hated it, this defeat was unavoidable. His ultimate defeat came in the form of a glistening maw and a slithering tongue, waiting for him, waiting to taste death. He pressed against the pavement, bracing himself to die--

 

         Instead, Matt was blinded by the light of the sun. Above him, Kelli exploded in a shower of dust and sparks. 

 

         Matt lay there, gasping for breath--He heard nothing but his heart pounding in his ears, staring up at the building tops and the dull sun, wondering whether or not he was alive.  

 

         But no--Alexander came into view, his brown eyes wild. "Matt!" He yelped, his voice seeming very far away despite the fact that Alexander was kneeling beside him, "Matt, Matt, fuckin' answer me!" 

 

         Groggily, Matt found himself nodding. "Wha--?" 

 

         Alexander sighed with relief. "Good, you're alive. I was hoping you would be." He rose, holding out a hand for him. "You hit your head pretty hard when she pinned you. You okay?" 

 

         Matt took his hand gratefully, wobbling to his feet. "Yeah, I think," he replied, bringing his hand up to message his throbbing skull. "I might have concussion." 

 

         "Fixable," Alexander said dismissively, kneeling. When he again rose, the dagger gleamed in his hand. "Glad I brought this, eh?"

 

         Matt nodded, still rubbing the back of his head. _"Ow."_ He groaned, as if in agreement. 

 

         "Oh, that's right," Alexander said, swinging his backpack around his shoulder with effortless coordination, "Eat this." From this backpack, Alexander procured a small sandwich bag filled with tiny lemon squares. "It'll make you feel better."

 

         "Lemon squares?" Matt asked numbly, taking the dessert as it was handed to him.

 

         " _Not_ lemon squares," Alexander corrected, " _ambrosia_." he put on a theatrical announcer voice, waving his hands erratically. "The nectar of the _gods_." 

 

         When Matt took a bite, he understood what Alexander meant. The food melted in his mouth and spread warmth throughout his body, as if, somehow, it was _healing_ him. It was an odd taste, but not unpleasant--like chocolate chip cookies drenched in butter, Paula Deen's greatest dream. Matt was almost reluctant to swallow it. 

 

         "Feeling better?" Alexander asked, clapping him on the shoulder as they resumed walking. "You held out pretty long with Kelli there. Not bad for your first combat fight." 

 

         "What _was_ she, exactly?" Asked Matt, bewildered. The ambrosia had helped him restore his bearings--and he was suddenly filled with more questions than he would have _ever_ asked at school. 

 

         Alexander restored the dagger to his backpack, looking stone faced at Matt. " _Empousa_ ," he said, "Beautiful woman, then...vampire-demon-crazy-shit. You're lucky you made it out alive."

 

         Matt took a breath, as if to affirm Alexander's statement to himself. _You made it out alive_. Then, after a moment, he realized. "...you?" 

 

         Alexander smiled softly, almost bashfully. "Don't mention it." He said dismissively, as he said all things. 

 

         Matt's head spun. Alexander, this stranger, this lunatic, this mugger-stalker, had just saved his life. 

 

         Should he trust this guy? Yeah, okay. 

 

         "Why?" Matt asked tentatively. 

 

         "Like I said," Alexander explained, suddenly shrewd again, "I was assigned to you. I'm supposed to keep you safe."

 

         " _Why_ do you have to keep me safe? Who assigned you? And where are you taking me?"

 

         "Chill," Alexander said, with little humor, "I can't tell you yet. Not until we get there. Not until we're safe."

 

         "You keep saying that." Matt muttered, slightly miffed. "What about my stuff?" 

 

         "No time. We'll have to get all that after, if we can." answered Alexander. 

 

         "And if we can't?"

 

         "Sucks." 

        

         Matt held his head in his hands. _What the fuck?_


End file.
